We Gather Here to Say Our Goodbyes
by TakeMeOrLeaveMe2010
Summary: A brief explanation on why Roger and Collins know how to pray in Latin and Hebrew  [oneshot].


**A brief explanation on why Collins and Roger know how to pray in Latin (and in Hebrew for that matter).**

**-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

"Aw, man! Latin class?" sixteen-year old Thomas Collins complained as he saw his class schedule for next year.

"Son, you'll need it when we take that trip to Europe! And Latin is a beautiful language, and very useful, too." Mr. Collins said back.

Knowing it wasn't smart to argue with his father, Tom sighed and flopped on their sofa. Then he reached over, picked up the phone, and dialed his best friend's, Roger Davis, number.

"Hey, Collins. You'll never guess what one of my classes is. Latin 1-2."

"I feel you, man. I got it, too. Second period?"

"Yeah."

"Sweet, at least we can study this shit together."

"Thomas!" scolded his father from the other room.

"Sorry, Dad. We can study this _lovely language_ together." Collins said, saying "lovely language" in a girly voice.

"We should call Cohen." Roger cut in.

"Nah, man. He's at a funeral for his great-aunt twice removed or something, remember?"

"We should probably go down there to keep him company…"

Collins sighed loudly.

"I suppose you're right. When's the visitation?"

"Today at four."

"I'll meet you there. Peace, bro."

"Later, man."

They both hung up.

**Insert line here!**

"Hey, guys. Thanks for coming…" Mark Cohen said sheepishly as he saw his friends walk through the door.

"No problem, man." Collins said as he patted Mark on the back.

"I do have one favor to ask of you, though…"

"What?"

Mark sighed, and looked down at his feet. "My relatives want some kids to sing a Jewish prayer at the funeral, and they're looking for people…"

Collins said nothing, but had a pained look on his face. Roger, however, shook his head vigorously.

"Please?" Mark pleaded, "I know it's dumb, but my parents keep harping me about it, and there's no way in hell I'm doing it alone."

Roger and Collins looked at each other, and sighed loudly.

"Fine…"

Mark's face lit up. "Great! Well, there's a 'practice' going on right now, so…"

Roger, Collins, and Mark all shuffled out of the room and towards a sitting area. In one of the chairs sat a, to put it nicely, full-figured, forty-year old woman. She was dressed in black, but it seemed she had stepped out of KISS with dark makeup circling her eyes, her nails painted black, and the tight, black jeans she wore.

"So, you're the kids singing the prayer, right?" she said in a high-pitched voice.

Roger, Collins, and Mark all nodded.

"Good. It's very simple. You just have to sing a phrase four times, and then the adults will take over."

She cleared her throat.

"_Yitgadal V'Yitkadash,_" she sang. Her thick, Bronx accent made it almost impossible to understand. "Now, you try it."

Roger sang it back in his raspy, rock-and-roll voice, adding some riffs here and there.

Collins sang it back in his soulful, R&B voice, making sound like they were in a gospel church.

Mark sang it back almost inaudibly in his nasal, almost whiny voice.

The woman tapped her nails on the table with disapproval. "No, no. Do it again."

So, for the next hour, they sang it over and over again. When the funeral came, none of them needed the paper with the words on it. They knew it by heart, even after the funeral was over.

**Insert line here!**

"_Dies Irae, Dies Illa_. _Kyrie Eleison._ Repeat."

The Latin 1-2 class at P.S. 45 mumbled back what the teacher had said.

The teacher, an overweight woman who loved to wear black, had been teaching them this phrase since the beginning of the year.

"Man," said Roger Davis, leaning back in his desk and only speaking loud enough that Collins could hear him, "why do we need this anyway? I'm not Catholic or anything. This shit is useless."

The teacher whipped around, hearing what he had said.

"Because, Mr. Davis," she said, her voice quivering with rage, "you will find you need this no matter what your religious background. And believe me, I am not teaching you this damn phrase over and over again for my own benefit!"

With that, she slammed her pointer down on his desk.

Unalarmed, Roger yawned, shook his head, and muttered, "Whatever."

_You have to pick your own fights, I guess_ he thought to himself.

The teacher went back to the lesson.

**Jump ahead to Christmas Eve, 1989.**

"Dearly beloved, we gather here to say our goodbyes…" Mark sang as he turned to the Bohemians.

Roger and Collins looked at each other, and knew they were both thinking the same thing.

"_Dies Irae, Dies Illa. Kyrie Eleison,"_ they both sang, using tone, pitch, and diction to sing it the way that had been beat into their heads.

They were going to continue in Latin, but neither of them could remember anything else. That phrase was all they had learned in that class, except for a few things here and there.

Then it clicked. Roger and Collins both exchanged wide grins, and sang proudly,

"_Yitgadal V'Yitkadash."_

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**I don't know.**

**That was a cute idea, LondonBelow.**

**This was definitely not one of my best one shots.**

**Review, though. Tell me what you think.**

**Oh yeah, when I looked up the **_**yitgadal v'yitkadash**_** phrase on Google, it said it was in Hebrew.**

**So, yeah.**

**XD**

**I'm not Jewish or Catholic, either. So I don't know what exactly they do at funerals or if they say Latin phrases.**

**Sorry!**


End file.
